


Because I Said So

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, because I said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam's not Harry dad, but he raised him after their parents died. And he's almost convinced that he ruined him, so he's going to fix it. By finding his soul mate via personal ad.<br/>Basically, it's the movie "Because I Said So" but the 1D version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It is based on the movie Because I Said So (fic's got such a creative title, eh?). I was watching it one day and could just see all of the boys roles so perfectly. I'd stopped writing it for a bit, but feel a sudden urge to continue so I thought posting it here might give me the urging I needed :)

_Man Seeking Life Partner For His Brother_

_I’d like to preface this ad by saying that I am, in no way, controlling or manipulative. I just know that he deserves the best. And as his older brother, and a frequent ear for frustrated middle-of-the-night ranting, I’m aware that I am probably the only person who knows what he needs._

_Serious inquiries only, of course. Also, if you are currently unemployed, carless, or allergic to dairy products, you need not apply._

_Contact: Liam Payne_

_\--_

The party’s fun. It really is.

            All of his and Harry’s closest friends were there. And Harry had gone out of his way to make all of Liam’s favorite foods. To book that jazz ensemble he’d seen a few months ago in the city and hadn’t stopped raving about. Even to hide the little “42” pins Niall had thought were funny that Liam had seen before anyway but pretended he hadn’t. And the cake, this three-tiered masterpiece with coconut and lemon-infused piping, was absolutely breathtaking. He knew it must have taken Harry hours, but he never complained once. It’s just who he is.

Everything’s perfect. Really.

            Liam’s just not fond of celebrating his demise.

            Because forty was bad enough, but now he’s at forty-two and everyone’s smiling and clapping him on the shoulder and he’s supposed to be happy about it, but how can he be?

            He hears the numbers and they stick to him, a new torture, every time someone says them.

            Is he supposed to thank them for congratulating him?

            He doesn’t think he has the energy. Maybe after a few more drinks…

            He settles in at the bar, watching Harry from the across the room as he chats up a guy with suede shoes and eyeliner.

            He seems nice. Maybe.

            But not good enough for Harry. Especially when Harry turns to get them new drinks from the bar and the man rather abruptly squeezes his ass.

            Okay, whatever.

            Harry’s a grown man. Liam’s not going to interfere.

            Still, when Harry sidles up to him at the bar and orders their drinks, Liam tries to sound nonchalant.

            “Having fun?

            Harry beams at him, that easy smile that says more than his words ever could.

            “Yeah, I met this one guy,” he winks at Liam, then adds with a cocky smirk, “Think I’ll take him home and have my way with him.”

            “He _the one_?” Liam jokes.

            Harry shrugs.

            “Good enough for one night anyway,” he says, snagging the drinks, “What about you?”

            Liam raises his glass a little with a smile.

            “Just going to take this home. No one else looks promising.”

            He waits for Harry to get far enough away so that he can just drop his head down on the bar and sigh.

            Rather obscenely heavily sure, but whatever. He’s entitled.   

            Like always, Harry seems to attract the worst people. The ones who have no ambition. The ones who just want to fuck around.

            He thinks he’s about to start ripping out his hair when he sees a familiar face a little further down on the bar.

            He walks over and sits next to Niall who’s alone, nursing a beer.

            Niall knows him. And he knows Harry. He’s practically family. So Liam unleashes all of his guilt and frustration on him in a rather winded confession.

“He’s always had low standards. It’s partly my fault, I think. I was never good at relationships, and I was always so busy. I hardly set a good example,” he ends, massaging his temples.

            Niall gets about halfway through his beer before he says anything at all.

            It’s something Liam’s always liked about him- that he takes his time. He knew when he first met him- a skinny blond boy, all bones and crooked teeth- that he was exactly what Harry needed. A calm in the storm, someone to stop Harry from getting in his own way.

            “He doesn’t blame you,” Niall says. A loaded response, if any. He doesn’t avoid Liam’s eyes, but when they meet, there’s a fire behind the icy blue that can’t possibly be attributed to the alcohol.

            “Aren’t you going to tell me that Harry’s okay?”

            “There’s a reason he’s never had a relationship that lasted more than a few months, Liam. He might not blame you,” Niall says, tipping the bottle back and slamming it down on the bar once it’s empty, “but you blame yourself. Right?”

            Liam just nods.

            “Well, that’s good enough for Harry.”

            The tone of his voice surprises him. It’s so sharp. Sharper than he ever remembers it being.

            “What about you?” Liam asks, “Do you blame me?”

            “Harry’s my best friend. He’s like a brother to me.”

            “Doesn’t answer the question.”

            The bartender comes and refills Liam’s glass.

            “Congratulation,” he says, with the morose finality of a death sentence. I’m sorry, you have cancer.

            _I’m sorry, you’re forty-two._

“I think you tried really hard to be everything you thought they wanted you to be. I think considering the circumstances, you did the best you could.”

            “But it wasn’t enough though, right?”

            He doesn’t know why he’s pushing, he just- suddenly it feels so vital. To everything. A pulsing, breathing monster has made his chest a host for negativity. It parts his lips and consumes each syllable from Niall’s throat.

            “It’s never enough. Not just you, man. Everyone. I could give you a list from here to the door of all the things my parents fucked up about me.”

            A nice gesture, but it doesn’t stand.

            _Everyone’s ruined, so your individual failure is okay._

            “Can I fix this?” he asks, just to say it. To see if it seems as silly and harsh on his tongue as it had in the back of his mind.

            Niall stands and drops a bit of cash on the bar. He straightens his jacket and turns to Liam, puts his hand on his shoulder.

            “Trust me, you don’t want to do that. He’ll be fine.”

            “What if he’s not?”

            “He’s only twenty-seven, Liam,” Niall snaps finally, his voice leveling out to daggers like he’s been trying this entire time to keep it contained, “and he’s not like you. You’ve got to stop putting all your fears on him.”

             Okay.

            He’s listening. He really is.

            He hears everything Niall says.

_He doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. He just needs help. But he’s too afraid to ask for it._

_He’s twenty-seven._

_He’s so close._

Liam just wants to save him.

He doesn’t want Harry to be _him_. Forty-something and alone, questionably-miserable, but certainly dependent on others for his happiness like Liam is on Harry. Harry’s his entire life. He has been since he was screaming that night in the hospital after the crash, squirming in Liam’s arms, not quite able to understand why he had to go home with Li-Li and not their parents.

            He sighs.

            It’s so difficult. He just wants Harry to be happy. But Harry’s had the worst luck with dating. It doesn’t make any sense to Liam either- Harry’s perfect. And he’s not just saying that with the clouded lens of “family” in the way.

            He’s charming and funny, handsome but with a boyish energy that people seem instantly drawn to. He’s independent. He’s driven.

            The list could go on and on.

            He’s strong-willed. He’s eager. He has a devilish wild-side that Liam had always tried to tame, but seemed to suit him well enough now.

            He’s-

            Liam downs the rest of his glass in one gulp, wincing at the bite.

            He’s a hopeless romantic.

            And that’s so rare. To find someone who still believes in true love. And not even in a _settle_ sort of way. But the real deal.         

            And Harry does.

            Harry does…

           Liam stills, his hand hovering over the counter with his card, practically hearing the gears in his head roar to life. They jolt and spin and loop through with clanking metal chinks. _But it’s crazy, I couldn’t_ -

            Still, the idea’s there already. And it’s not so bad.

            Okay, maybe it’s crazy. Maybe it’s absolutely fucking mental.

            But it’s him. And it’s Harry.

            So not so bad.

            They know each other so well, two sides of the same coin. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d set Harry up with someone. Maybe not so _extensively_ , but still.

            And just like that, it becomes real. Less of an idea and more of a good omen from the heavens or something.

            He’s the only family Harry’s got. If he’s not the one to find Harry’s soul mate, then who? Judging from the notches in his bed post, Harry clearly can’t do it himself.

            He hands his card to the bartender with renewed vigor, no longer wallowing in his own failures. It’s like they don’t even matter anymore. Maybe he fucked Harry up. But he’s going to fix it, so all’s clear. The board’s been wiped clean.

            He’s wearing a grin that’s unable to suppress when the bartender hands him his card again.

            “Have a good night,” he says and Liam nods.

            “Oh, and again. Congratulations, man.”

            And Liam doesn’t even think for a second about the number. His mind’s somewhere far away. Like in front of his computer at home. He’s already forming the first lines of the ad right there in his mind.

            “Man Seeking Boyfriend For His Younger Brother.”

            No. Not right.

            “Man In Search Of Love Interest For-”

            God, no. Love interest? He can do better than that.

            “Man Seeking Life Partner For His Brother.”

            Yep. There it is. He repeats it over and over, just loving the way the words feel floating around inside his skull.

            On his way out, he snags Harry and gives him a big hug, thanks him for the amazing party and the cake.

            And he can’t resist pulling him close and whispering into his ear, “I love you, Harry. I love you so much.”

            Harry makes a face, probably trying to figure out whether Liam’s drunk or not.

            “I, uh love you, too, Liam.”

            He gets home forty-five minutes later and hangs his coat up on the rack. He sets out a dish for Darcy while he waits for his computer to start up.

            Like always, she tries to snuggle up into his lap while he’s typing away. Only now that she’s not a palm-sized pup anymore, it’s more a leap into his gut that knocks the wind out of him and ends them both rather ungainly in a pile on the floor.

            He just stays there.

            Darcy settles for her head in his lap and he leans over, typing with his laptop on the floor in front of him. Every few words, he’ll reach down and scratch lazily at her ears and her tail will slap against the floor, a quaint doggy _thank you_.

            By the time he’s all done, Darcy’s fast asleep. He maneuvers gently to stand without waking her and packs his computer away. He straightens up a little and washes up. When he comes back and sees her still there, fast asleep, her paws twitching with some exciting dream- chasing squirrels, maybe? Life-sized mice. As much bacon as her stomach can stand.

            He lifts her up in his arms and presses a kiss to the side of her head. She whines, shifting a little, until he sets her down at the foot of his bed.

            She’ll end up by his pillow somehow in the middle of the night, breathing rather rudely right into his face. But he figures on principle he should lay her at the end anyway.

            He turns out the light and settles down beneath the covers. In the darkness, the only sound he hears is Darcy’s ragged breathing, the wet sound of her licking her chomps slowly.

            “Goodnight, girl,” he says, because he just feels like he should.

            And because it’s been so long since he’s actually said good night to anyone. Like in bed with them.

            He turns over and closes his eyes and tries to remember. It just makes him feel a little sick, though. Because there was Dennis, and then there were a few one-night men. But that was it. He’s been alone for so long now, he doesn’t even think he’d know what to do if someone came along.

            Which is okay.

            Because he’s old enough to not need that. But Harry though.

            Harry’s got his whole life ahead of him

            And he shouldn’t have to go to bed alone. Ever.

            He slips into sleep with the slightest smile on his lips because he’s going to fix everything. And, for the first time since he’d taken Harry home that night, since the doctor had calmly explained that their parents were never waking up, he feels like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

 

\--

            _Liam doesn’t drift into sleep. It’s more like a dive, head first, into water that’s rock-solid and cold as ice. He’s in a car._

_He can tell because there’s the dashboard and the wheel are in front of his chest._

_But everything else seems out of place. He’s cold and his vision’s blurry, but clearing slowly. As he starts to see again, he can make out the slow flurries of snow drifting in from outside which makes no sense.  And when he looks down, it’s not his hand but his dad’s that stretches out to loop with his mother’s in the passenger seat. He can tell because they’re big, so much bigger than his own at seventeen. And there, digging into his swollen finger, is his silver wedding band._

_“Baby?”_

_His mother’s voice. Like angels or something. He’d always thought she sounded like all of his favorite things._

_Now she just sounds scared. Really scared._

_He can feel his breathing speed up, and it’s painful, so painful, just to take in thin breaths. It’s like he’s breathing through a straw._

_“Baby?” his mother says again, “Baby, wake up.”_

_He is awake, though, right?_

_He tries to say as much, but instead of words, dripping from his lips is something thick and warm. Blood._

_He looks down at his chest, at the splattering of dark red in the darkness._

_There’s something else there, too, though. Something long and thin, black, sticking right out through his abdomen._

_He reaches for it with the hand that’s not holding his mother’s and tries to pull, realizing suddenly that it’s the emergency brake. Snug, somehow, in his stomach. It doesn’t move. Not even a little._

_And he thinks absently that it’s probably a bad sign that he can’t feel it at all._

_He can feel the cold, the snow pouring in through some cavernous hole in the roof. He can feel his mother’s fingers, her strong grip. He can feel a blunt, blinding pain behind his eyes._

_But nothing else. Not his feet or his legs or the brake or his chest or even his neck._

_Bad sign. All of it._

_“Baby? Look at me,” his mother says, and she sounds strong. He’s hopeful then._

_He might not make it. God, he probably won’t make it- oddly enough to sees himself, Liam, and Harry, both sitting out with smiling faces- but she still can. She sounds so strong._

_He tries to say something, but it sounds wet and gravelly. His throat can’t form the words. He turns to her, though._

_She smiles at him, but it only reaches half of her face. The other seems to drip awkwardly down like cream-colored wax._

_Is she paralyzed? She’s- Has to be. Right?_

_His heart beat picks up, but slows when she squeezes his hand._

_She looks at him with those beautiful green eyes, Harry’s eyes._

_“I think we flipped,” she says slowly. He can see then that it’s more than half her face. The other side is slow, too. Her lips not quite moving fast enough for her words. Her hair that was done up in long, dark ringlets for their date is plastered to her face with dried blood._

_“We’re on a- Busy- Busy…”_

_She swallows a few times, trying to say it, but there’s no need. He knows what she means._

_Busy street. Someone will come for them._

_It doesn’t even matter, though. He can feel everything starting to dim. He knows he won’t make it much longer. He’s probably been bleeding out for too long already._

_But she can make it, though. She can be fine._

_“Tell Liam, I’m-” he manages. It’s all he can do. His throat starts to burn, throbbing in agonizing rows._

_He doesn’t even know where the words come from. They fall from his lips so easily. He’s his father. He’s Liam. He’s dying. He’s trying to make sense of it all._

_Then there’s a light._

_“Baby? See? Someone’s- Someone’s coming.”_

_No, not. Not yet. He has._

_He has so much to say._

_He tries to squeeze her hand, but his is limp. A useless clump of cells._

_He has to blink back tears. Hoping that forming the words in his mind is enough._

_Liam, be strong, okay? You are. You’re just too hard on yourself._

_And it feels so weird to be thinking the words. About himself._

_But he goes on. And on. Slowly. And the light gets brighter and brighter, moving too fast to be someone coming to help them. Probably someone losing control on the ice like they had. Probably someone who’s about to crash right into them._

_So she won’t make it after all._

_He wants to tell her that it’s not a saving grace, but his lips are useless, too. He lets her hope. Maybe it’s better that way._

_And she does. She smiles, a sick almost cruel interpretation of the smile he fell in love with. It drips into only half of her face, a deep dimple._

_“We’re going to be okay,” she says, lifting his hand to kiss it gently, “Just hold on. It’s going to be okay.”_

_And the last sound he hears is sliding. Ice rippling beneath tires._

_And maybe metal, too. The crunching grind of the car colliding with theirs in the darkness, but he thinks he imagines that part._

_Not the way his mother’s eyes shine, though, right before. How sure she is._

_“We’re going to make it. Baby, we’re going to be okay.”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Liam settles in at corner table far off from the stage. The music is nice then, not so loud, a dull serenade to his racing thoughts.

            But the thoughts are nice, too, really. Or welcome at least. He hums along to the song the guitarist is playing- a slow cover of “know your onion”- while he stacks out the printed profiles. Each is coated in high liter- occupation, living arrangements, favorite alcoholic beverage, etc.

            He’s just gotten his latte when the door opens and a tall, albeit a bit stocky, man struts over. He sticks out his hand rather bluntly and shakes Liam’s with an iron grip.

            “I’m Simon,” he says haughtily, sitting down on the edge of the seat like leaning back would be an inconvenience.

            Liam tries not to roll his eyes. Mainly because he can tell the man’s a jerk already. Secondly, though, because he can see- accentuated by his strong fake tan- that he’s old. Really old. There are wrinkles in the sagging skin of his cheekbones and neck. His eyes are rimmed with crow’s feet and his lips are a weak, pale pink line.

            “Erm, I’m Liam,” he says, then adds tentatively, “and you _do_ know that my brother, Harry, is twenty-seven?”

          Simon nods quickly, reaching out to wipe his finger across the table like he’s looking for dust, “Yes, I’m aware,” he says, “Good, prime young age. Lots of energy. Stamina,” he says, with a wink that makes Liam feel nauseous, “and I’m only sixty-five. We’re right around the same age anyway.”

            It only seems to go downhill from there.

He’s on his nineteenth interview- a girl with dark skin and wild curls who barks out proudly that she’s an exotic dancer before Liam can even catch her name- when he signals for the barista. He hands her his empty mug and calmly requests a glass of scotch and- “Well, maybe just bring the bottle, yeah?”

            He doesn’t even look up when the next caller takes a seat across from him, just tips his glass back and waits a moment for the headache to ebb.

            “Tough day?” comes a smooth voice. The sort of voice that usually follows a great face, maybe an ever greater resume, but he pauses before looking, honestly afraid to get his hopes up.

            He sighs, massaging at his temples.

            “I can’t even put it into words.”

            “That bad?” and there’s a short pause, the scraping of a chair on the hardwood floor, “I’m Louis by the way.”

            And like an omen from the universe, the guitarist begins to play something warm and melodic, it might have been a lullaby if it wasn’t accompanied by his crooning voice. Smooth and controlled, almost sensual.

            Liam has to fight a smile when he finally takes a glance. The Louis guy’s attractive.

            And not even default-attractive from all of the previous whack jobs.

            He just sort of commands. _Radiates_.

            It doesn’t take more than a look to see that he’s dressed to the nine’s. And in the best possible way; this wholly effortless class that speaks volumes.

            He’s leaned back with crossed legs, the thin band of bright blue silk of a tie matches the piercing blue of his eyes. He reaches up to smooth down a stray strand of his sandy brown hair then snaps his finger for the barista. And if anyone else had done it, Liam would have had to grit his teeth not to reprimand them, but it seemed so fluid with Louis. Even the barista, obviously berated with an onslaught of new customers, comes over with a genuine smile, fixing her eyes on Louis like she’d like to undress him then and there.

            After he orders something rather elaborate from the menu- and a blueberry scone, “without the sugar on top, please, babe”- Liam presses him for his occupation.  

            Louis lets a slow smile spread across his face, lighting up the dark corners.

            “I’m an architect,” he responds, without the heady air of a boast or even the faint discomfort of humbleness, “I’ve been somewhat…lacking in some aspects of my life, if you know what I mean.”

            Liam nods, feeling his heart pound a little because fuck, those eyes.

            “Love?” he says, hopefully.

            Louis scoffs, looking rather disgusted for a moment, but slithers back to his normal bored look a second later.

            “Companionship,” he corrects, “And in your ad, your brother seemed like a great guy..”

            Liam’s face brightens and he sits up straighter, taking the cue, beaming at Louis with something akin to worship.

            “He really is,” he says fondly, “He’s wonderful. He’s just got his own catering business off the ground. He’s so independent and driven, you know, and just all-around amazing. I wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t deserve the world.”

             The barista slips back to their table just then to place down a steaming purple mug and a plump pastry on a square plate. She tries, rather obviously, to catch Louis’ eyes, but he winks at Liam like he doesn’t even notice she’s there.

            “Well, if you’re looking for someone amazing I’m your guy,” he says with that rare, dazzling full smile that sends a warm shiver down Liam’s spine. He laughs and makes a mental note to end the meetings when Louis leaves because- case-closed, it’s all over. He’s certain there won’t be any other prospects to come even remotely close. _And an architect!_ He has to think about puppies being strangled to keep a straight face and not hug him when Louis reaches out to shake hands two hours later.

            They’d decided, around Louis’ third latte and another handful of obscene flirting techniques later, that the best way to get Harry and Louis to meet would be in the coming week. Louis was having a party of sorts to celebrate the opening of a building he’d designed in the business district, and they hadn’t hired a caterer yet. Liam happily plopped a stack of Harry’s business cards down on the table.

            He watches Louis leave- dropping a wad of cash and swinging his suit jacket off one shoulder- and can’t suppress a smile. 

            A minute later, it’s dripping quickly from his face though when he smells the overpowering stench of cigarettes and hair spray. Seating himself, rather abruptly, in Louis’ previous seat is the serious musician from the stage, his guitar still under his arm.

            He stills Liam with a determined look.

            “Well?” he says rather bluntly, with these dark brown eyes that might be warm if they weren’t connected to someone so _invasive_.

            Liam just shakes his head.      

            “Well what?”

            “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do? You know, for a living? Where do I live? Am I allergic to nuts?”

            And for a moment, he seems almost about to. He looks him up and down, though, and gives a rather minute shake of his head.

            “Clearly you do music or _something_ ,” he says with a scoff, too irritated after the long day to bother with politeness, “You’re not Harry’s type.”

            The man smiles then.

            “So his name’s Harry? Nice.”

            “No, not _nice_ ,” Liam puts in quickly, “And he’s not your type.”

            The man stares back at him with a smug grin, “Eh man, if they’re human, they’re my type. Oh, and I’m Zayn.”

            He holds out his hand to shake, but Liam just watches it like it’s holding a grenade. And if the heady reek of cigarettes on his skin isn’t bad enough, there’s a bold tattoo on the back of his right hand, a bright gold sun outlined in pale green stretching out to almost touch his fingers and wrist on both sides.

            “It’s polite to introduce yourself, too, you know?” Zayn says, dropping his hand back down, seeming more amused than anything else.

            Liam thinks he might hate him. And he’s never hated anyone before.

            “What might possess someone to get a tattoo like that?” he asks suddenly, unable to keep the question in any longer.

            Zayn looks down then at his hand like he’d forgotten it was there.

            He looks back up, suddenly serious. When he speaks, his voice is low and restrained. Like each word has to claw its way from his throat.

            “It’s for brightness. For light,” he says, “I got it when my mother passed away. A drunk driver just- just came out of nowhere. They say it was instant. She didn’t feel anythi- Any pain. The sun was a reminder. It _is_ a reminder to stay strong in the dark times.”

            There’s a calm silence then where Zayn looks down at his lap and Liam feels a little ill.

            “That’s beautiful,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on Zayn’s arm to comfort him, “I’m so sorry.”

            Except then Zayn looks up and he’s wearing this cocky smirk that makes Liam want to punch him.

            “Naw, I’m joking,” he says, shaking one of Louis’ left over cups and sipping casually at whatever’s inside, “I got it on vacation two years ago. Guess it’s bad to get drunk with unreliable friends, huh?”

            It takes all of three seconds for Liam to grab his things and stomp off in a flurry of mumbled curses. Most notably, Zayn hears “prick” and “arrogant dick”.

            He laughs right up until he turns around and spots the stack of cards lying face-up on the table.

            They’re pale-white with a wide square dead center, “Good Enuf To Eat” in muted oranges and browns and greens. Off to one corner is contact information- Harry Payne with an address and an e-mail. He sticks one in his pocket, not really even sure himself what he plans to do with it. But after a minute with his brother, he was dying to meet Harry. If only to see if everyone in the family had a stick up their ass.

            He’s naturally curious. One of his best friends, Logan, likes to tell him it’s his fatal flaw.

            Plus the Liam guy, when he was spouting a boner for the suit, looked pretty fucking adorable. And if this Harry guy looks half that good, Zayn’s willing to drop by and let fate decide.


	3. Chapter 3

The building’s all sharp lines and concrete and just dead center, the first thing he sees when the van pulls up to the front doors, is a solid towering wall of glass- spotless windows that inch up toward the sky for nearly three floors.

            “Wow, this is incredible,” Niall beams in the seat beside him, and it’s all Harry can do to offer a stiff nod in reply. Because incredible? Yeah, sure.

            But _cold_ was the first word he’d thought of- letting his eyes scan the unyielding mountain of marble as it loomed, a menacing presence in the middle of the street. He wonders at the type of person his client must be. He’d seemed kind enough over the phone, asking polite questions about the business and how it got off the ground, about Harry’s family and where he went to school. But now he’s staring up at the expanse of grey and he doesn’t think he could ever think too highly of someone who looked at this and saw some sick comfort in it. Without the sun’s glare, you could see straight through the building past desks and a sitting area to more concrete, more stony cold slate. No, he feels exposed which is odd, so he gives himself a good mental shake before heading out to help Niall unpack the few things they’d brought with them.

            The others, with the last two vans, were to join them shortly.

            They sort out three long tables, shifting on fresh white linens, before a tall woman with thick streaked hair and a clipped smile walks over. She studies them both for a moment like she’s wondering who to speak to. She must eventually decide on Harry because a second later she’s shaking his hand, then Niall’s. She stands back then, watches them, and seems to eventually approve.

            “I’m Caroline, you must be Harry,” she says with a slight smile, “I’m the project coordinator. Come to me if you have any questions or problems. Mr. Tomlinson should be over to see on you when he shows up.”

            She checks her watch another two times before Harry can even get a word in.

            “Is this a good spot to set up? Wouldn’t want to block anything for the guests?”

            She gives him a nod, and then saunters off without a word. Niall stares after her with the same confused look Harry’s sure he must be wearing.

            “Hope everyone’s not that strange.”

            Except they kind of are.

            Rude. Maybe not overtly rude, but Harry’s used to doing small functions. Homey things like birthday parties, or anniversaries, often at clients’ houses. He’d been so excited to have an offer to cater a grand opening. And with a budget that left him drooling, he’d splurged on exotic foods he wouldn’t have been able to cook with usually, relishing in the chance to show what he could do.

            But the people at this function walked over with their faces set in permanent frowns.  They grabbed drinks and hors d’oeuvres without a word. The only one who seemed even remotely interested in acknowledging Harry or any of his workers even existed was a handsome man in a cobalt suit. He smiled demurely at everyone, asking polite questions about the sauce on the scallops, or complimenting the chef, sipping champagne between bites.

            He would have been a pleasant interruption, but when he walked off to start conversation with the Caroline woman, Harry and Niall could just make out the quiet hissing voices of two men standing over by the fountain.

            They were so close, they might have been kissing if not for the tense set to their bodies and how they glanced frequently over to where the man was chatting.

            “I hear he snipped twenty thousand off the budget so he could buy a new Mercedes,” said one.

            The other snorted.

            “Twenty? That’s nothing. Last week he fired three people so he could have room for a new office.”

            Harry tries not to listen in, but when the work slows down, it’s hard not to be a little nosy. Especially when the man had seemed so nice. Harry watches him from across the room with the background noise of his employees and their gossip.

            “Oh, and Rachel. You remember Rachel?”

“She filed a sexual harassment suit a few months ago, right? Poor girl.”

 “Yeah, well _he_ didn’t think so. Told her to get over it. Offered her enough money to buy France if she kept quiet.”

             And it goes like that for nearly a half hour. List after list, they could’ve written a book with all of the strikes against him.

            Still Harry watches, scooping out tiny glass cups of cucumber gelato as the function winds down, where the man is across the room laughing with someone, pointing up at the chandelier. It’s hard to imagine him as anything but a good guy. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s as handsome as a Greek god with those smoldering blue eyes.

            Niall taps him on the shoulder after he serves the last glass and the cavernous room is dim and nearly empty.

            “Going for a smoke,” he says, “We’ve just got the tables and glasses, then we can leave.”

            Harry waves him off and starts clearing up what’s left. He’s so busy, he doesn’t even realize that there’s someone there until they clear their throat, startling him so bad he drops the glass in his hand. It shatters on the marble, a bright screech, then a hundred tiny shards.

            He looks up quickly, expecting Niall again, but feels his heart race when it’s a dark suit instead. Straight lines and a forest green shirt. Those intense blue eyes holding him steady.

            “Sorry,” he says, leaning in to grab the broom from Harry’s hand, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

            And Harry can’t seem to make his mouth work. All he can do is reach for the broom again.

            Louis smiles and it rattles around in Harry’s chest.

            “I’ve got this,” he says, then adds with a wink, “You’ve been cooking all day, you’ve got to be going nuts. All these stuck-up suits complaining about the glasses or the champagne or how cold the gelato is.”

            When Harry stammers, tongue-tied, he’s thankful that the man just trudges on.

            “But it’s about the building, right? A grand-opening. How do you like it?”

            Harry finds that if he doesn’t look right at him, he can form coherent words. He glances at the ground first then, before replying. Thankfully, it’s something he has a strong opinion on.

            “I don’t really like it,” he says, watching the man bend over to clean up the piled glass. Being a gentleman, he only takes a _quick_ glance at his bum.

            “You don’t like it?”

            He shrugs, “Just seems a bit cold. I like things to be cozy. You know, ambers and browns, like uh, brick and warm things and puffy pillows I don’t know. I’m, erm, Harry. By the way.”

            The man dumps the glass bits and turns to him with an even wider smile. He sticks out his hand for Harry to shake.

            “I’m Louis,” he says, laughing a little, “I’m the architect.”

\--

            So not the best start, but they both laugh about it afterwards. And they’re still laughing, about a movie they’d both seen, when a horn blares outside after everything’s all cleared up and Harry sighs.

            “That’s Niall. I really should go.”

            He apologizes to Louis when his face drops, but then takes his card when he offers.

            “We should go out sometime,” Louis says, with the same self-assured confidence that he’d held since the first time they’d spoken, “Sometime like next Friday.”

            When Harry finally makes it out to the van, Niall frowns at the smile glued to his face.

            “Well, you look like you just got laid.”

            Harry rolls his eyes.

            “Prospective lay?” Niall adds, and Harry bites his lip, watching Louis’ dark silhouette fading out against the massive window as they pull away.

            “Maybe,” he says, and it feels good. So he says it again. “Yeah, maybe.”

            Niall shrugs.

            “That’s surprising. All I met today were asses. A few hot asses, but still fucking asses.”

            “He’s not an ass.”

            Then Niall looks at him, his eyes off the road just long enough for it to be a safety hazard.

            “Well, who was he? Maybe I got a glimpse.”

            “Actually, it’s the architect,” he says, feeling ridiculously happy just saying it, “the guy who kept coming over and asking about the food.”

            Niall looks at him like he’s completely lost it.

            “The guy whose employees basically called him _Satan_?” he says with a sharp edge, “ _That_ guy?”

\--

            Zayn wakes up with nothing to do. Logan had taken Danny to the carnival and he didn’t have any shows lined up. So he goes for a casual, destination-less drive.

He gets a block away and he can see the building already.

It stands out on the street a bright yellow and there are three vans out front with “Good Enuf To Eat” labeled on them in thick bubble letters the same colors as the card in his pocket.

            He pulls up just behind the last one, and realizes suddenly that this may not be as black and white as it had seemed in his head. Surely he can’t just stroll into a catering business like he could a restaurant, faking curiosity until he saw someone a little younger than Liam with a similar face. Possibly the same lemony-sour scowl.

            Before he can devise some wild scheme, he sees a mop of curls from across the street and just _knows_.

            The man fumbles awkwardly with his shirt, tugging it away from his slender chest until he reaches the vans and is just a few feet from Zayn.

            Zayn gets out of his car and makes his way over, stopping abruptly when Harry peeks around, misses him, and starts to lift his shirt over his head right there.

            Which is fine, Zayn glimpses a streak of tanned skin, the ripple of abs, but it’s not the sort of behavior he’d expect from anyone like the Liam-guy. He knows it’s Harry, though. He’s practically got it tattooed to his forehead.

            Liam’s strong jaw. Liam’s intense eyes. Liam’s brown hair, darker maybe, and where Liam’s had been cut short and you could just make out the curls, Harry’s are wild and untamed. They frame his face in a way that’s so boyish he has to look at him hard and long to see that he’s not that young. He looks on with a smile while Harry slips off his undershirt and puts his shirt back on. Well, young yes, much younger than he’d thought. Much younger than Liam, probably around Zayn’s own age, late twenties.

            He smiles, catching Zayn’s eyes then, and Zayn bridges the gap of space between them with three steps.

            Harry laughs nervously and motions up at the sky.

            “The humidity,” he says, shrugging, “Makes your clothes stick. Like static or something.”

            Zayn just watches him, the way he smiles and it digs into these ridiculous dimples. How light his eyes are, a pale green that’s almost blue if you’re not close enough.

            Harry shuffles awkwardly then and points off to the door.

            “I should, uh, I should probably get going,” he says, then adds, because he feels sort of rude, “It was nice meeting you, though.”

            Zayn lets him get almost to the door before he has to say something. Anything.

            He just feels like if he doesn’t he’ll never see him again. Like the world will end or whatever.

            Or maybe not that extreme, but he’s getting a feeling anyway, and he never ignores his feelings.

            “Chocolate or vanilla?” he says quickly.

            Harry stops then and turns to him.

            “Excuse me?”

            “I was thinking it was a good day for ice cream,” Zayn says, “I’ll bring you something back. Chocolate or vanilla?”

            Harry looks around like he thinks it’s a joke. When Zayn only stares back at him, completely serious, his brows furrow.

            “Uh, sure. I guess. Just… bring me what you like?”

            Zayn gives him a serious look, “Why don’t I bring you what _you_ like?”

            There’s a pause where Harry thinks his head might explode. Because he suddenly realizes how ridiculously attractive the guy is. And not even in a subtle way. He’s the sort of attractive that you see coming like a freight train, but you don’t even move. And with his dark skin in a sloppy cardigan, a fedora balanced on his tar-black fringe, he’s the sort of effortless attractive that Harry suddenly wants to humor.

            “Do I get sprinkles?” he asks, all smiles with those preposterous dimples and Zayn thinks he loves him already.

            “You get anything you want.”

            “Alright, well bring me vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and a waffle come,” he turns, then whips back suddenly, “No, chocolate with nuts.” His face screws up and he shakes his head and Zayn has to try so hard not to laugh, “No, wait! Vanilla with nuts and one of those gross cherries that aren’t even real.”

            Then he’s headed back for the building and Zayn’s reeling because it just happened, and it doesn’t even feel real. And now he has to find a place close by that sells ice cream…

            But still- Harry, huh?

            He’s got a smile plastered to his face until he makes it back and he and Harry sit around his shop, talking with their mouths half-full and a slim blond man sneaking glances from the door way every few seconds.

            Eventually Zayn asks Harry about him.

            “Oh, that’s Niall,” he says then adds loud enough for Niall to hear from the hall, “He’s just a close, irritatingly nosy friend.”

            A moment later, he snakes his head out - “Best!”- and he’s gone again.

            Harry smiles and rolls his eyes, “Okay, _best_ friend.”

            Fifteen minutes later, Zayn strolls out to his car with a box of cookies that Harry had insisted on him taking and Harry’s number in his wallet on the back of a receipt. Next to the digits is a smiley face and an arrow pointing to the eight.

            “It’s when I’ll be home,” Harry’d said, with this shy blush that made Zayn want to kiss him, “You could come pick me up tonight maybe? I know a great place for drinks.”


	4. Chapter 4

The hardest part is that sometimes he forgets. There’s Harry, his son, this bundle of pink skin who wouldn’t stop smiling. Then there’s Harry, his brother, who slips vodka into his coffee.

“Strong,” Liam says, but he’s smiling.

Harry winks at him and turns on the movie. It opens to a black and white screen, spotted and centered with elegant cursive- _Sabrina_. He snuggles closer to Liam until he gives in and lifts his arm, letting Harry rest his head in his favorite spot.

When they were younger, they would watch home videos. Harry always wanted to see what Liam looked like as a kid. Plus, there would be brief glimpses of their parents. Those slow, shaky shots of their father in khakis, smiling- all crinkly eyes- in thick rimmed glasses. Those sparse moments of their mother’s hands on the back of Liam’s brand new bicycle on his eighth birthday, her dress flaring out gently around her slim calves. They were the only moments Liam could get Harry to sit still and be quiet. He would spread his text books out on the living room floor after dinner, prop Harry up on the sofa in a nest of quilts, and answer his quiet questions patiently between assignments.

“Was her hair really that dark?”

_Dad used to say he would lose her in the night. And she’d wear these little gems, clips he bought her. They would look like stars._

“Was he tall?”

_Yeah, you’re tall for your age, you know. You’re probably gonna be tall like him._

“Do you think they loved me?”

But when they grew up, they started watching old Audrey Hepburn movies. Their favorite was Sabrina. They usually save it for nights when Harry’s had a rough day. He’ll call Liam and tell him to come over, to bring Darcy- his golden retriever- and popcorn. Harry opens dusty liquor bottles and spikes Liam’s drinks. They just get to talk which is nice. Now that Harry’s left home and started working and is more _brother_ than _son_.

Tonight’s the same. Harry had rung him up around nine with a story about a couple who’d wanted him to cater their anniversary. After all of the prep and arriving at the venue to set up, they’d casually explained that they couldn’t actually pay. _But he could stay if he wanted. Since he’d brought along all of his… stuff._ On the screen, Audrey sits in the empty tennis room, atop the judging stand in her beautiful dress, extravagant and _new_. Harry laughs and Liam can feel it when his chest shakes.

“You think we’ll ever get sick of this movie?” he asks.

Liam shrugs.

“Maybe?”

“We’ll still watch it, though. We’ll probably be eighty, still watching this movie. Still laughing at the same parts.”

Liam wants to make a joke, but it really hits him then. How close he is.

Forty-two.

Forty was bad, yeah. Forty-one was a bit less of a shock, but still…

Forty-two meant like wheelchairs and aspirin regimens and jell-o for dinner. Forty-two was basically end-all.

“Except when I’m eighty, you’ll only be sixty,” he says, with a sigh, “practically a teenager.”

Harry turns to him a little, making a face.

“You’re not old, Li.”

“Not young, though, either.”

“Is this about of your birthday?”

He scoffs, but Harry trudges on.

“Because forty-two’s not some descent into oblivion. You don’t have to- You don’t have to feel like your life’s ending or something.”

“I don’t-”

“And you don’t have to be miserable, either. You don’t have to be alone…”

They just stare at each other then. Because Liam can’t really believe he said it. And Harry either, Harry can’t really believe it.

“I’m not alone,” Liam says, with the sort of faux-confidence he hasn’t used in ages. Not since Harry was little and Liam had to discipline him for coming home with his brand new trousers ruined or when he’d broken every plate in the pantry with an ill-directed ball kicked around in the kitchen.

Unlike his ten year-old self, now-Harry just rolls his eyes.

“You haven’t been on a date in years. When was the last time you did something other than work?”

“The other night I went out with Niall’s friend. That bartender guy, remember?”

Harry stills him with a look so stern, Liam thinks it would’ve made their father proud.

“That was five years ago, Li. You met at my birthday. _Remember_?”

And yeah, okay so he’s not the most social person. And maybe he hasn’t been on a date in a while. But he’s not twenty-five anymore. He has priorities that don’t involve sex and like, romance or whatever.

“I’m happy, Harry.”

Harry turns to focus on the screen like just looking at Liam is frustrating. When he speaks his voice is low and clipped.

“You’re not happy. You don’t know how to be happy,” he says, “You’re comfortable. And that’s sad because you can do so much better than comfortable.”

They sit then watching the movie with no sound but random sips from glasses. It’s almost the end, when the stoic brother, stern and poised, stands up for Audrey. Rushes from the meeting to meet her, proclaim his love. Liam squeezes Harry’s shoulder.

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” he says quietly.

Harry nods.

“Same,” he says, “It’s the same for me. And you’re not happy. You haven’t been happy for a while.”

“I don’t need a guy to be okay. After Dennis, I just…”

His voice trails off, but Harry knows what he’s trying to say. They’d both thought Dennis was the one. Liam had been with him since Harry had started high school. In the difficult situation, he’d been great with Harry, great about everything really. But they got a few years in, an engagement, a new apartment, then everything started to slowly fall apart.

“Dennis was a mistake,” Harry says, “You’re so much better than that.”

“What about you?” Liam says, trying to change the subject. He clears his throat after finishing his coffee, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Harry blushes and nods, nibbling at his lip.

“Yeah, I uh, I’ve got a date tomorrow night actually.”

Inside he’s all fireworks and bombs, but he just nods, pretending to be only faintly curious.

“Oh? With who?”

Harry’s smile gets ten times wider.

“His name’s Louis. He’s amazing,” he says, with a look that tells Liam that it was all worth it, “He’s an architect. We’re going out to dinner at some restaurant he raves about.”

“An architect? Wow.”

“Yeah!” Harry beams, launching forward excitedly “It’s actually a really funny story, we met when I was-”


	5. Chapter 5

He takes a sip of the wine- and really, it’s not so bad- not what he would have ordered, but he likes the way it lingers. Something strong, a burnt, bold aftertaste, then the light slip of something… floral. Rosewater? Do they even put that in wine?

            He likes that he can see the domed roof of his building from here, balanced on the bright neon strip of the city skyline.

            He likes that Louis’ eyes never leave his, and they watch him with so much intensity.

            He motions to the glass in Harry’s hand.

            “How did I do?”

            He starts to give him a thumbs up, but stops himself at the last minute- how silly would he feel doing that in a 3-piece suit with a glass of 80-year old wine in one hand?

            He smiles and nods instead, takes another short sip.

            “It’s lovely,” he says, tipping his glass in Louis’ direction, then motioning to the plates- all covered in bite-sized chunks of food he can’t pronounce from countries he probably never even knew existed, “All of it. It’s actually quite nice,” he adds, “to not have to think for a change.”

            Louis smiles and Harry gives a relieved laugh. He can’t help but feel like he’s passed some test. Which is ridiculous. It’s a first date, not a final exam. Still, he finds himself hanging on every word he says, faking enthusiasm when Louis lags on a story about a trip he took with some of his colleagues a year ago. They get to the third plate, the only one Harry’s actually genuinely enjoyed so far- a calamari dish- when Louis stops talking abruptly and motions for the waiter. He just raises his hand in the air and does four quick snaps in a row like he’s royalty or something.

            It takes everything in Harry not to duck his head in embarrassment when the waiter actually comes over. And he’s a great sport about it, but really? Really?

            Who snaps at people like that? Like they’re farm animals?

            He can hear Louis saying something to the man in this smooth, effortless French that’s sexy as hell, but all Harry can think about is that first night they’d met. How he’d been so sweet to Harry, but his coworkers had nothing but negative things to say about him. And how uncomfortable Harry had felt in the building he’d designed. How his first instinct had been strangely like fight-or-flight.

            “It’s just like, cruel-feeling,” Harry says, aware he’s rambling, but Louis just sort of makes him feel weightless and as soon as he’d started talking about modern architecture, it seemed he couldn’t stop, “I like when you feel like you can prop your feet up on the table, not afraid to spill,” he mutters as Louis opens the door to his flat and his voice trails off.

            It’s all sharp lines. Stone walls, stone floor. An endless expanse of grey. Even the furniture, these chunky mod pieces all set low to the ground, seem to exist only in morbid shades of blacks and greys. He spots a beige pillow and feels his heart slow a little, but nothing more exotic than that.

            Even the art. Where in Harry’s flat there are vibrant mosaics, exciting pieces meant to inspire and awe, here there are only two lonely canvases above the ash-grey sofa. One is just a black square against a white background. The other is the opposite, white against black.

            Louis clears his throat and Harry stammers quickly over an apology.

            “It’s fine,” he says, “To each his own, right?” with a smile, but Harry can’t be sure that it’s sincere. Maybe he hasn’t known him long enough to read that far in yet.

           But he knows even after just one date that yeah, he wants to know him well enough to read him. He’s charming, for one. And smart. Funny, in the way Harry had always envied- this sarcastic, bluntly opinionated depth. And maybe he’s just what Harry needs. After all, Liam was constantly insisting he should take himself more seriously. _Twenty-seven’s about time to think about your future._

            So when Louis asks him if he’d like a drink, Harry nods.

            And when Louis leads him to the living room, Harry sits down on one side of the sofa. Louis seems almost hesitant at first, but then he smiles and loosens his tie, sets his drink down on the table.

            “I know this is the part of the date where you sit on one side of the room, and I sit all the way over here,” he says, motioning to the seat by the window, “but I like you, Harry.”

            Harry gulps. Watches the way Louis’ skin seems to burn brighter in the low light, just a sliver of tan, his neck, a glimpse of his chest.

            “You, too.”

            Louis’ smile drips into something almost cruel, but there’s _want_ in his eyes- a look Harry’s had plenty of practice interpreting- and when Louis makes his way over, when he places one hand on Harry’s knee, sitting down beside him, Harry prompts him closer so it rests on his thigh.

            Louis gives him a questioning look, and Harry offers a small shrug.

            “I want everything to be clear.”

            Louis leans in so close, Harry can smell the dark musk of his cologne. Something almost sickly sweet, too. He focuses on Louis’ eyes to try and ignore it.

            “I want to kiss you,” Louis says, then presses his mouth to Harry’s before he can object.

 

\--

_She had been the_

_sandpaper of his fingers once_

_in her mother’s voice- He’d said her name_

Zayn’s voice sounds like serrated edges when he sings, long sips, nasty burns. He writes about what he knows. Tonight he’s sitting on a stool with his guitar balanced on his thigh, leg propped up on the second rung. Memories making a patch-work quilt of his sanity; jumps from her face, pale almost-white hair cupping her cheeks, to her smile reflected in Danny’s laughter, the low whine when Zayn scoops him up from the sofa, his diligent insistence between yawns that he’s not that tired at all.

Zayn remembers what it’s like with the clarity of someone half-mad. When you’re nineteen, twenty- you have a chance, you take it. He sings like he’s alone even with a hundred people beyond the stage.

He was twenty-four and greedy- he’s always been greedy, Logan reminds him sometimes- but there was something about _her_ that made him insatiable.

_But now when she inhales_

_he makes slow work of the strings at her shoulders-_

_That same cruel skin burrowing deeper and deeper until she’s mirrors_

 

            Her face in the crowd, the dim shadows where her eyes sunk in, the brief smile when Zayn slipped up on a chord. Her beer raised when his set ended. The soft press of her lips against his cheek, his ear. Her name whispered in the clutter of his numb fingertips.

 

            He remembers that, all of that. But not what happened after. Their first time is blurred by the day she told him she was expecting- the thick feel of vomit in his throat. It was like open-heart surgery, taking a breath after that. He’d had to focus so hard, his vision went spotty.

 

Now he catches Harry’s eyes in the crowd, offers a little smile on the last words. Tries to ignore how _wrong_ it seems, singing about pain like that with all of Harry’s smothering… light. Right? Managing to breathe.

 

He makes a mental note to jot it down once he’s done. Might not be bad as the beginning of a chorus. Something slow, almost self-indulgent. Raw, though maybe..

 

_and she is_

_like a wound_

_stitched haphazardly in the middle_

He has about five seconds to enjoy the soft clamber of applause before he’s being stared down by the next performer- a thin girl with limp green hair, clutching a harmonica in one bony hand and a battered book of poems in the other.

He nods to her, to the audience, packed in tight in the tiny bar, and carries his guitar off with him, searching for Harry in the navy blue shirt he remembered him coming out in.

 

He’s not hard to find.

            Perched on a stool, cradling a drink in one hand, Harry’s laughing with a slighter man at the bar. He seems familiar, but he can’t place him. The unsteady lights make his skin burn like copper and Zayn trudges over, sighing, not quite able to remember whether date two was too early for jealousy just yet.

            Regardless, he moves his guitar to his left hand and sticks his right out at the man across from Harry. He’d have slipped his arm around Harry’s shoulder after, but he didn’t want to seem like he was pushing it.

            “Hey, I’m Zayn,” he offers casually instead, nudging Harry a little to give up half the stool. He laughs and rolls his eyes, but moves a bit. Then Zayn’s heart does the strangest fluttering sigh when Harry’s lips are on his cheek.

            The other man’s brows go up a little, but he must decide not to mention it, only shakes Zayn’s hand firmly.

          “Hey, man, I remember you. I’m Niall,” he says, then nods to the stage, “You were fucking incredible up there.”

            Harry agrees adamantly, and Zayn tells himself the enthusiasm has nothing to do with the previous hour of bottomless glasses.

            “Thanks,” he says, over and over, then Harry does it again, kisses his cheek, presses his lips to Zayn’s ear like they’re all alone.

            When Niall makes a soft annoyed sound, Harry turns to him and glares, “Oh, shut it. I seem to recall a certain _Joshy_ and enough gag-worthy-”

“Hey! You know there were- circumstances… Impending, erm-”

            Before Zayn can stop them, the words are leaving his mouth, a relieved sigh.

            “You’re the best friend, right?”

            Harry beams. Niall scoffs.

            “Yeah, he’s my best friend,” Harry boasts.

            Niall grumbles, “He’s a pain in my ass.”

            While Zayn orders a drink, Niall checks his watch.

            “I should be off,” he says and Zayn asks to be polite.

            “Work tomorrow?” He’s in a suit, after all. Not your typical Friday night bar-goer.

            When Niall nods, Harry smiles.

 

 

            “That nine-to-five,” he says, “He’s a true patriot of our times. A warrior for the common man.”

            Niall downs the last of his beer.

            “I’m a therapist,” he explains, standing to leave, shaking Zayn’s hand again, “and I’ve really got to be off. I have a patient who’s often mildly-suicidal most Saturday mornings.”

            “It was nice meeting you again, Niall,” Zayn says, not sure if he’s serious or not, and Harry nods adamantly, hugging him before seeing him off.

            They stay at the bar a little longer, but eventually head off in Zayn’s car to the pier.

            Zayn’s first intention hadn’t been to drag Harry off to make him suffer through his show- he’d actually planned the standard dinner and a movie, then maybe a walk in the park. But he’d gotten a call about an open slot, and money was tight enough without him saying no to work. Harry had seemed more than willing to watch him play, so they’d ended up there instead.

            Now, he’s walking down the path with Harry’s hand in his and he feels weightless. Or not even weightless. He feels like his bones have been laced with cement. Like if he took a few steps to his left he’d sink straight through the surface of the water to the lake’s floor in an instant.

           He busies himself asking Harry questions. About his work, how he got started, how he knew he wanted to cook.

            Harry asks him the same, but his answers aren’t nearly as eloquent. He settled, then burrowed, then settled again.

            But “pity” isn’t in his vocabulary.

            Harry asks him about the last song and Zayn blushes.

            “I used to love this girl,” he says, “She fucked me over.”

He leaves out any mentions of Danny, worried it’s too soon. Mostly worried Harry’s not ready.

It wasn’t the sort of thing you divulged on a second date, was it? A son? He’s not sure _when_ to say it, if he’s being honest. After Danny’s mom, he’d only been with a handful of people. And he hadn’t taken any out. Usually it had been random guys he’d meet on the train, at shows, guys with pale hair and bright eyes who were as good at pretending as he was.

But Harry’s different.

He can tell even after so short a time. He’s…innocent.

Okay, he’s fucking filthy and Zayn’s had more semis in awkward places than he’d like to admit just thinking about the things he wants to do to him.

But he’s pure, too. He believes in fairy tales, which is ridiculous at twenty-seven, but he does. And he laughs no matter who’s watching. He nudges Zayn’s elbow and laughs when he blinks, jolting out of his thoughts.

“I want to see you again,” Harry says.

“Yeah.”

“But you know, preferably with mood lighting this time,” he jokes, “silverware, waiters, awkward pauses, ridiculously tight ties.”

\--

            Harry’s sitting on his front porch just after Zayn’s driven away and he can’t stop smiling, the feel of Zayn’s lips coating him, literally everywhere. He’s burning up and icy cold and dripping, but thick as sap.

            It wasn’t even a particularly spectacular kiss, Zayn’s lips touching his for the briefest moment until they heard a car horn and jerked away like horny teenagers caught in the dark.

            But he felt it in the base of his spine and when Zayn walked him to his front door, he pulled away from the hug to trail his thumb over Harry’s cheek and _fuck_ , he’d shivered, hadn’t he? His knees gone all weak and wobbly.

            It could have been the alcohol, he tells himself, but it doesn’t feel right. And he knows it’s awful, but he gets in his car anyway and he heads for Liam’s place and doesn’t even bother knocking, figuring he’ll be in bed anyway. He uses his key and slips into bed right along with him, nuzzles into his side and closes his eyes.

“I had the most amazing night,” he mumbles into Liam’s shoulder.

            Liam stirs a little, whispers back groggy with sleep, “Yeah?”

            Harry smiles, “Yeah. He’s… I don’t even know.” There’s a pause, a short content sigh. He squeezes Liam’s hand, “We kissed-”

            “Congratulations.”

            “-and I’m ninety-percent sure there were fireworks.”

            Liam yawns and chuckles, “And I’m reminded of a certain scrawny ball-player you insisted on baking cookies for once. There were fireworks there as well, yeah?”

            “Hey,” Harry huffs, “I was twelve. How was _I_ supposed to know a simple hello sufficed for grade-school crushes?”

            “Asking your wizened older brother?” Liam mumbles, yawning again.

“You were working late,” Harry snaps without thinking, “Niall and I made due.”

And it’s not fair. Not fair at all. He regrets the words the moment he says them.

He can feel Liam tense beside him, feel him let go of his hand quickly like the grip is torture.

“Harry, I-” but Liam trails off because they both know. There are only so many times he can say he’s sorry. Only so many years of self-appointed penance.

This particular poison was always the worst.

Liam’s a shit cook. Just complete and utter _shit_.

            Sometimes he honestly wonders how Harry didn’t wither away to nothing with all of the half-assed dinners he’d concocted over the years. But then again, he only had to manage until he was about nine or eleven. By then he knew his way around the kitchen better than Liam did. When Liam would work late, coming home a little after midnight, he’d find a plate left for him wrapped with foil in the stove. Sometimes even a little note attached. Mostly, Liam remembers, with something a little too bittersweet to be fond, how there would be short bits about him having finished all of his homework or asking if Niall could stay the night- often this would be followed in scratchy long letters by _Hey Liam._

            Sure enough when he’d go up to check on Harry in bed, there’d be another head tucked under the covers beside his little brother, a telltale blond.

“He’s so amazing,” Harry whispers finally, “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

“ _I already have_ ,” Liam wants to say, “ _I know he’s amazing. I chose him_.”


	6. Chapter 6

Niall’s not _exactly_ late.

It’s Saturday. Which is… well, it’s not very spectacular for most people, but being a therapist tended to dictate a certain level of disarray, particularly when there was a six-foot pole of crumpled khaki banging on the front door of your office at four a.m. sobbing like the world’s decided to come to an end at this particular moment.

He’s not late to open- His secretary always flips the blinds and unlocks around 10 a.m. No, he’s late for Tom, who seems to perpetually have a mid-life crisis at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. It’s become such a staple that Niall just packs clothes and food, and sleeps on the sofa in the waiting room Friday nights.

This particular Saturday Niall rubs his eyes, buries his face in his sleeve to hide a yawn, and stumbles over to unlock the door, nodding a silent hello to Tom who only hiccups and takes a step forward before hesitating and inching back on the step instead.

“You’re late,” he says, blinking past tears to study Niall as if he’s not sure if he can trust him. As if their five years of therapy were suddenly obliterated with a two-minute gap in tradition, “You’re never late.”

Niall shakes his head, “You’re early,” he lies.

Tom sighs. His voice trembles.

“You’re probably right. I’m always early. Why can I never get that right?”

He forces a hand through his greasy curls and mumbles something about his wife having said as much before running off with his best friend on their anniversary.

Niall takes the opportunity to nudge him gently through the door.

He has to get on his toes to help Tom with his overcoat, shrugging it over his broad shoulders while he stands still like a child. Niall does the same for his shoes- almost offensively priced thick-soled coffee brown loafers with olive green laces. Tom waits until he’s done before plopping down on the sofa amidst Niall’s crumpled blankets. He plucks up a pillow and wraps his arms around it, holds it in his lap staring at Niall with wide, expectant eyes like a giant middle-aged baby.

Niall starts to sit beside him, then reconsiders and settles down on the floor across from him instead. He fumbles with his phone and turns it to silent before offering Tom a slow smile.

“How are things?” he asks tentatively, fully prepared for a fusillade of negative comments and somber misgivings, surely a few crude gestures about self-harm.

Instead Tom nestles back and sniffs, “I’m not horrible, right, Dr. Horan?” he whispers.

“Now what would make you ask that, Tom?”

He sniffs again, “I’m sort of starting to date,” he mumbles.

“That’s great-”

“Has anyone ever called you fat?” he says suddenly, face screwed up, “Or maybe, I don’t know, round? Told you that you could stand to lose a few pounds, and maybe stop ordering beer when there’s a perfectly good selection of fruit jusices just beside the liquor menu?”

Nial pauses before answering, trying to gauge what reaction Tom expects.

“That’s a very specific question, Tom. Did she say something like that about you?” he asks slowly.

“She who?”

“Your date.”

Tom frowns, scrunching up his nose.

“No, it was a man. I’m.. trying something new.”

Niall hesitates for a second at that, but calmly congratulates him a second later.

“That’s fantastic, Tom. I’m really happy that you’re putting yourself out there and dating again.”

“Oh no, never again. I’m never doing that again.”

He eventually has to drag the details from him, but with a trail of sighs, Tom admits to meeting the man and having coffee.

Or a beer, he adds, his voice dropping a little, “Since when is beer not okay in the afternoon? And it wasn’t even him. It was for his brother.”

“The beer?” Niall asks.

“No, the date.”

“His brother?”

Tom nods. Sniffs.

“I even wore my good trench. It’s lucky. Did you know that?”

“Of course,” Niall insists.

“But it didn’t work.”

“Okay, Tom, that’s not healthy. That man is clearly sick. Who would do that?”

Because, Tom suggests, everyone in the world is a reincarnation of his third grade teacher Mrs. Abel and they talk about her for the remainder of his time. About how she smelled mostly, since Tom remembers that bit the best.

Before Tom will leave, Niall has to promises to talk with him more about his failed date next time and he straightens up a little once he’s finally gone. It’s nearly eight, and he checks his phone to see two missed calls- one from Harry and one from Liam- and the last with a message.

Liam’s voice is gritty with sleep, “We’re taking Harry to breakfast,” is all he says, then it cuts off.

When Niall calls him back, Liam promptly tells him that he’s half-dressed and will be on his way to get him in two minutes. Niall objects, on the grounds that they usually do group-gatherings at slightly more appropriate times and besides, he’s sleepy damn it. An extra hour and a half on the sofa sounds decidedly more interesting than a plate of eggs and Liam’s steadfast refusal to have a beer before noon- the only thing that could possibly have Niall anything but semi-conscious for spur of the moment weekday torture.

Niall can practically hear Liam shaking his head right through the phone.

“Nope, you’re coming,” is his blunt response to Niall’s insistence.

“Why? Can’t it just be you and Harry?”

Liam just clips, “Because I said so,” before hanging up.

\--

“Ugh, your _phone_.”

Zayn turns and shrugs the blanket up over his face, fists it by his ears, but the insistent shrieking only stops for a second before coming back even louder.

“Harry,” he groans, “What the fuck, man..”

The long, Harry-shaped body next to him only mutters something about flour before turning over and pretending to snore.

When it rings again, Zayn just huffs and maneuvers the best he can on Harry’s love seat to grab the phone and press it to Harry’s ear.

Whoever’s on the other line is talking low so Zayn can’t hear, but Harry grumbles in response.

“No,” he groans, “It’s too early.”

There’s a pause.

“I hate breakfast actually. I’ve always hated breakfast,” Harry mumbles, “Fuck breakfast.”

Then he shifts until he’s sitting up, and whoever’s on the line must have won because he’s reaching to hold the phone himself, and sighing his way through dragging his shoes out from beneath the sofa.

“You know that only worked when I was like four, right?” he says, then laughs, “Okay, sure, whatever. I’ll be outside. Go to Niall’s first-” he looks quickly at Zayn- “Yeah, I just need a minute, alright?”

He hangs up and drops the phone, drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then looks at Zayn as apologetic as he probably can be.

            “Breakfast?” Zayn asks.

            Harry blushes a little, this adorable flush right across his cheeks that makes Zayn’s heart flutter around in his ribs.

            “My brother’s calling it an emergency.”

            Zayn’s just about on his second boot by now.

            “Well, brother knows best,” he smiles, “But I’ll see you, right?”

            Harry nods, “Saturday. Lemon tarts,” and a moment later it seems they’re going their own way.


End file.
